


Old and New

by MyOwnSuperintendent



Series: 1960s [6]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, F/F, F/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 22:46:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17333819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOwnSuperintendent/pseuds/MyOwnSuperintendent
Summary: When Monica meets John Doggett, she wants to know him better, even though he's different from most of her friends.  Their relationship, however, brings many complications.





	Old and New

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part 6 in my 1960s AU. It takes place a few years after all of the other installments, in late 1973. So now it is technically 1970s AU! It would help to read the other installments first, especially the third one.
> 
> I don't own The X-Files or anything related to it. Hope you enjoy!

They met by chance.  But she always did like meeting people.

It was at a meeting Monica had gone to—one about Central Park, about how bad it was getting there.  She’d hoped the meeting would be practical, that they’d talk about things people could do to help clean it up, even if they were only small things.  But, like a lot of meetings she found herself going to, it ended up in an argument, or a bunch of arguments, if you wanted to get technical.  One guy called another a pie in the sky dreamer, and that guy retaliated by calling him a bourgeois pig.  That kind of thing happened a lot too.  She was used to it.

It wasn’t worth sticking around longer, she decided, and she picked up her bag to go.  There was a guy on the way out too, clean cut, brown hair.  He caught her eye and smiled, a nice smile.  “Wow,” he said, nodding back towards the two arguing guys, one of whom had just knocked over a chair.

She laughed.  “Par for the course at these kinds of meetings, unfortunately.  Everyone’s heart’s in the right place and nobody can agree.”

“Well, disagreeing is one thing,” the guy said.  “It doesn’t mean they have to shout about it.”

“You make a good point,” Monica said.  They were out on the sidewalk now, still heading in the same direction.  “Have you been to any of these meetings before?” she asked him.  It sounded corny, she thought.  _Come here often?_

“No,” he said.  “I haven’t been back in the city that long, actually.  But I was thinking—it would be good to join something.  And I thought the park, because…well, it’s outside.”  He looked at her ruefully.  “But I thought we’d be getting organized.  Making plans to actually do some work there.  Not just bickering.”

“You’re speaking my language,” Monica said.  “I’d always rather be doing something.  My friends say I leap before I look, half the time.  But what do they know?”  She grinned at him.

“That’s a good trait,” he said, seriously.  “Taking action.”  He looked at her for a moment, and then he laughed.  “Hey, we’re getting into the deep questions before we’ve even introduced ourselves.  I’m John Doggett.”

“Monica Reyes,” she said, taking his outstretched hand.  “Are you from around here, originally?”

“Is it that obvious?” he asked, and she laughed again.  “Yeah, I grew up here.  You?”

“I came here for college,” she said.  “But I decided to stick around.”  They walked along—they were almost at the subway now—and she was getting one of her ideas, probably another one of the kind that made people accuse her of jumping into things.  “Would you want to go to the park together sometime?  Just to see what we could actually do?  We could pick up trash, at least.”

He looked surprised, but then he smiled.  “Hey, that sounds great,” he said.  “When were you thinking?”

“This weekend?”

“I’m not sure what I’ve got going on,” he said.  “Could I call you?”

“Sure,” she said—she still had the flyer she’d picked up about the meeting, and she tore off a corner and scrawled her name and phone number on it.  “Here you go,” she said, handing it to him.

“Thanks.”  He folded it and put it in his pocket, carefully.  “I’ll call you soon, then.”  They were at the subway now, and he was going uptown and she was going downtown, so they didn’t say much more than goodbye. 

Melissa was in the kitchen when she got home, making tea.  “Hey, Monica,” she said.  “How was the meeting?”

“Not that great,” Monica said.  “Just a lot of arguing.  You know the kind of thing.”  Melissa nodded.  “But I talked with a guy,” Monica said, “and we might go pick up trash together or something like that.”  Melissa nodded again, looking a little distracted, and Monica squeezed her shoulders gently.  “How’re you doing?”

Melissa shrugged.  “I’ll bounce back,” she said.  “It was the right choice, I know.  Sheila and I wanted really different things.”

“Doesn’t mean it has to be easy,” Monica said.  “You know I’m here if you want to talk, though.”

“I know,” Melissa said.  “Thanks, Monica.”  The kettle whistled, and she took it off the stove.  “It’s just going to be weird,” she said.  “You know we’re supposed to be planning that demonstration together.  For Lesbian Feminist Liberation.  And now it’s going to be…well, weird.”

“You want me to join the committee?” Monica offered.  “I can be your buffer.”  Melissa looked a little dubious, which Monica couldn’t really blame her for; she wasn’t sure she’d be an effective buffer, since Sheila didn’t particularly like her.  They’d tolerated each other, while Melissa and Sheila were together, but Sheila always seemed to have an issue with Monica liking both women and men, which Monica wasn’t about to apologize for.  “Okay, maybe not,” she said.  “But I’m here to talk, anyway.  Or we could all go out some time.  You and me and Starchild.” 

“Yeah, that could be fun,” Melissa said.  “Thank you.  Really.  But I know I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will too,” Monica said, and she hugged Melissa quickly.  “I’m going to go write in my room now,” she said.  “But you can knock any time.”  Melissa, now installed at the table with her mug of tea, nodded again, and Monica went into her room.

She’d kept a diary all her life; she liked having somewhere to sort out her thoughts, other than in her own head.  Tonight, she wrote about Melissa, about hoping she’d be okay, and mostly about the meeting, and talking to John Doggett, who seemed interesting, and wondering when she’d see him again.

 

That didn’t take too long.  Starchild tapped on her door the next evening, saying there was someone on the phone for her, and she answered and it was him.  He said Saturday morning would be good for him, if she wanted to go to the park, and she said that worked for her.  When she got out of the subway at Columbus Circle, she saw him standing outside the entrance to the park, and she hurried over.  “Hi,” she said.

He looked startled for a moment, but then he smiled at her.  “Hi,” he said.  “Right on time.”

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Monica said as they walked into the park. 

“No,” he said, “not at all.”

“I brought supplies,” she said, holding up her bag.  “Garbage bags to collect things in.  And apples, in case we get hungry.”

John smiled again.  “Looks like you’ve thought of everything,” he said.

“I try to be prepared,” she said, smiling back.

“Were you a Girl Scout?” he asked.

“I was, actually,” she said.  “The whole time I was growing up.  I even worked at my old summer camp, when I was in college.  Were you a Boy Scout?”

“Yeah, I was one of those,” he said.  “I always liked the being outside.  We used to take a bus out of the city, to go camping.”

“I loved camping too,” Monica said.  Some of the girls in her troop hadn’t liked roughing it, but she had never minded.  “Looks like we could pick up some of that stuff, over there,” she said, pointing, and they walked towards a heap of papers, crumpled, looking windblown.  “You said you’d recently gotten back to the city,” she said, as she stooped to gather the papers into one of her garbage bags.  “Where were you before this?”

“Vietnam,” he said.

She didn’t know why she should be surprised, but she was.  “Oh,” she said at last.  “Well, I’m glad you made it back.”  Did she sound like an idiot?

If he thought she did, he didn’t show it.  “Thanks,” he said.  “So’s my family.  So am I,” he added, after a minute.  “It wasn’t—well, it’s probably no surprise to hear this now, but it wasn’t what I expected when I signed up.”

Now she really was surprised, even though she told herself that she shouldn’t be.  The fact was that most of the guys she ran into, certainly the ones she actually hung around with—well, they’d done everything they could to avoid being drafted, and they definitely wouldn’t have signed up voluntarily.  She knew Dana and Melissa had some experience with this—their brother had gone, and their parents were very much for the whole thing—but she didn’t, even with her family.  Her parents had been against the war from the start.  So had most of her friends.  She’d never really had to have the kind of firsthand, person to person debate that Melissa was always talking about having at home.  And even if she had, of course, this wouldn’t be the time or the place for it.  You couldn’t debate what someone had gone through.

“I bet not,” she said, eventually, feebly.  “Well, I am glad you’re okay.  I’m glad we’re out of there.”

“Thanks,” he said again, and they picked up the rest of the papers and walked on.

But after that they had fun, after all.  He made a face at her while picking up a banana peel that was right next to a trash can— “I understand,” he said, “it was too far to walk”—and she found herself laughing.  They saw spots getting cleaner from their work; it was a drop in the bucket, maybe, but it was something.  They talked about other things they thought the park needed, places where the grass was dead or the pavement was potholed.  And then they just talked about other subjects entirely: erstwhile Boy and Girl Scout adventures, movies they’d seen recently, their favorite places in the city. 

“I’ve never been there,” she said, when he told her about a coffeeshop he liked.  “I’ll have to try it.”

“You should,” he said.  “I could show you, sometime.”

“That sounds great,” she said; she suspected that she was blushing, faintly.

They stopped around eleven-thirty, their garbage bags filled.  “A good morning’s work,” Monica said. 

“Absolutely,” John said.  “If you want to do more of this…let me know.  Like I said, it’s good to get out and do something.”

“Oh, I’m happy to do more,” she said.  “Same time next Saturday, maybe?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, that sounds good.  I’ll call you to make sure.”

“Great!” she said, and then he waved, and then he was gone.

 

She was meeting Langly for lunch that day, so she went there straight from the park.  He was already outside the diner, and he raised his eyebrows at her as she approached.  “Why are you carrying a garbage bag?”

“Oh,” she said.  She looked around, found the nearest trash can, and deposited it.  “I was in Central Park.  Cleaning up.”

“Some kind of group thing?” he asked.

“No,” she said.  “Just me and one guy.”

“Some kind of weird date?”

“No!” she said, more vehemently.  “Just trying to make the park nicer.  Anyway,” she added, “are you really one to talk about weird dates?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Monica,” he said, as they walked in and sat down at their usual table.  “I’ve never been on a weird date in my life.”

“You took Karen to that documentary about cadavers,” Monica said.

“And she loved it,” Langly said.  “What’s your point?”

 “I don’t know,” Monica said.  “That you’re both weird, I guess.”  She smiled at him.  She was still sort of surprised that he had a girlfriend of any kind, honestly, but he’d met Karen at a party at Dana and Mulder’s—she’d gone to medical school with Dana—and the two of them had hit it off.  Monica liked Karen, though, and she thought the two of them were good for each other, not solely because of their shared taste in weird documentaries. 

“That’s a given,” Langly said.  “Anyway, who’s the guy you were cleaning the park with?  If it wasn’t a weird date.”

“Just someone I met last week,” Monica said. 

“Anyone I know?”

“I doubt it,” Monica said.  “His name’s John Doggett.”

Langly shook his head.  “Yeah, I don’t know him.  What’s his story?”

“I don’t know,” Monica said.  “He just moved here.  He’s looking to join stuff.”  She was aware that she was leaving it very vague.

“You could tell him to come to the protest next weekend,” Langly suggested.

“Hmm, maybe,” Monica said.  “I don’t actually have his number.”  This was true, she realized, but it was also a good excuse. 

She told herself she was being a coward.  She could spend time with whoever she wanted to spend time with, and they didn’t all have to see things exactly the same way.  If Langly judged her for spending the morning with John, he wasn’t being a very good friend to her, and if she acted like John having been in Vietnam was something she had to hide from Langly, she wasn’t being a very good friend to either of them.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Langly had already started talking about another subject entirely: Frohike’s attempts to modify a TV Typewriter.  And it was easy to listen to that, and to ask questions, and to talk like they always did, without bringing up anything that might change that.

 

“I was thinking,” Melissa said, the next morning when they were eating breakfast.  “We should start planning for Thanksgiving.”  They’d done Thanksgiving together, the last couple of years: her, Melissa, and Starchild, Langly, Byers, and Frohike.  Karen had come too, last year, and Sheila, when she and Melissa were together.  Monica and Melissa always took charge of the cooking; the food was pretty traditional, even if the vibe decidedly wasn’t.

“Yeah, good idea,” Monica said.  She put jam on her toast.  “Is everyone going to be around?”

“I think so,” said Melissa.  “I know I am, anyway.  No surprise.”  There was always a defiance in her voice when she talked about this; she hadn’t been invited home for any holiday in almost three years, since she’d come out to her parents, and Monica knew that she would never say how much it bothered her in so many words.  “I told Dana she’d probably have to shoot the pope to stop being the good daughter.”

Monica briefly pondered the circumstances under which Dana might shoot the pope: it was a funny image.  That wasn’t the point, though.  “Their loss,” she said.

“It is how it is,” Melissa said.  “But yeah, I think everyone’s going to be here.  Anyone different you think we should have this year?”

She thought of John, even though she didn’t know how much sense that made: for all she knew, he was part of a big family, ready to welcome him to Thanksgiving dinner with open arms, the farthest thing possible from their band of Thanksgiving misfits.  But she did, anyway.  He seemed unmoored, she thought—he’d as much as admitted to her that he was trying to find things to do, people to know.  And she didn’t want to be afraid to be among those people.

“Actually,” she said, “there’s this guy I met at the meeting last week.  He’s just come back to New York and he’s looking for people to spend time with, I think.  Maybe I’d ask him.  If that sounds all right.  I don’t know if he’d be interested in coming, but I’d like to ask.”

“Sure, that’s no problem,” Melissa said.  “Just let me know.  What’s his name, anyway?”

“It’s John,” Monica said.  “We were cleaning up in the park together, yesterday.”

“Nice,” Melissa said. 

“Yeah, he seems like a really nice guy,” Monica said.  “He was telling me he just got back from Vietnam.  Recently.”  She felt better once she’d said it.

“Ugh,” Melissa said.  “For him, I mean.  Not at him.” 

Monica nodded.  “He said it was a lot different from what he expected.  When he signed up.”  She let out her breath.

But Melissa didn’t say much of anything.  “I bet,” was all, and then she sat down at the table with her toast.  It wasn’t an embrace.  It wasn’t a rejection.

 

They were cleaning in the park again: a different area this time, a little further uptown.  Monica liked seeing the different places: she’d spent time in the park, of course, but she hadn’t nearly covered all of it.  She said as much to John, as they walked.  “How about you?” she asked.  “You’ve probably seen more of it than me, growing up here.”

“Maybe not, though,” John said.  “When you live somewhere, it’s easy to take it for granted.”

“You’re probably right,” Monica said.  “I guess I get into a rut sometimes, and I haven’t even lived here that long.  I like to explore, but then I’ve got my usual haunts too.”

“Exactly,” said John.  “I was thinking about that, now that I’m back.  All the places I’ve spent a lot of time.”

“You’ve still got to show me that coffeeshop,” she said.  Was this hinting?  She hated hinting.

“Sure,” he said.  “I haven’t forgotten.  We could go there for lunch after this, if you’re not busy.”

“I’m not busy,” she said, and then she didn’t know quite what else to say, so she bent down to sweep some trash into her bag.  It turned out to be a used condom, which only added to her confusion.  “Maybe I should bring gloves next time,” she muttered.

“What…oh,” John said, looking.  “Yeah, don’t touch that with your bare hands.”  He looked more awkward about it than she did. 

“I’ve seen worse things, you know,” she said, quickly.  She didn’t want him thinking he had to protect her.  Or that she was about to get hysterical at the sight of a condom.  Or that kind of thing.

“Yeah, so have I,” he said.  He started laughing, then, and she joined him, and when they walked on the moment felt comfortable again.

The coffeeshop was just the kind of place she liked—small and cozy, clearly with its crew of regulars.  They settled at a table in a corner; she got tuna salad for her sandwich, he roast beef.  “Have you been coming here all your life?” she asked.

“Not when I was a kid or anything,” he said. “When I was a teenager, more.  With friends or dates.  And then it just became one of my favorites.  It was one of the first places I wanted to come, once I was back.” 

“Oh,” she said.  It always seemed to be a presence, in their conversation, in her thoughts, at least.

He looked up.  “Monica, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“About what?” she asked.

“Me being in Vietnam,” he said.  “You were against it, right?  Probably protested?”

“I…how did you know that?” Monica asked.  “I’d never…I mean, I didn’t want to say anything…”

He grinned.  “First,” he said, ticking off the points on his fingers, “you acted damn weird when I mentioned it.  Second, there’s the whole way you act.”

She didn’t know if that was meant as an insult.  “The whole way I act?”

“Yeah,” he said, waving a hand, “your whole…thing.”  As she continued to stare at him, he added, “Well, the way you talk.  And you obviously go to a lot of these social meetings.  And your hair and your…your clothes.”

“What’s wrong with my hair and my clothes?” Monica asked.

“Nothing!” he said quickly.  “I didn’t say anything was wrong with him.  You have a certain style, that’s all.  A woman who went to protests style.  And thirdly,” he said, before she could speak again, “you have that pin on your bag.”

Monica looked down at her bag.  She’d gotten the pin a while ago, but it was still there, with its picture of a hand giving the peace sign.  _Peace Now_ , it read.  “Oh,” she said.  She half laughed.  “Yeah, I guess that would be a clue.”

“It’s not a big deal,” John said.  “Honestly.  Not for me, anyway.  I hope it’s not one for you.”

“Of course not,” Monica said.  “Absolutely not.  It wasn’t…I was against the war, but not against any individual person, you know?  I don’t believe in that kind of thing.  Stuff like this, it’s bigger than that.  And besides, you’re my friend,” she added, quickly.  Yes, she felt like he was, already.

He smiled at that.  “Yeah?  Glad to hear it.  So you don’t have to act weird, then, when I bring it up.”

“Okay,” Monica said.  “That’s good.”  She took a bite out of her sandwich.

“Are you going to eat the rest of your chips?” he asked her.

“No, probably not,” she said, relieved at the subject change.  “You want some?”

“If it’s okay,” he said, taking a few.  “I’m always hungrier than I think I’m going to be.”

She finished her sandwich, thought.  “Speaking of food,” she said, “I wanted to ask you.  A bunch of my friends and I, we do Thanksgiving together every year.  People who don’t have a lot of family, or whose family’s far away, or they don’t get along.  Things like that.  And I wanted to invite you.  Not that I’m saying you don’t have family.  Nothing like that.  Don’t feel like you have to come.  I just wanted to…to invite you.”  Tripping over her own words, again.  Nicely done, Monica.

He didn’t look at her like he thought she was being an idiot.  “Monica, that’s really nice of you,” he said.  “It means a lot.”

“It’s low-key,” she said.  “We always have fun, though.”

“I bet,” he said.  “I’m not…I’m not sure yet if I have plans for Thanksgiving, though.  What’s going on with…with my family.  Do I have to let you know right now?  Or can you wait a little?  I don’t want to mess up the amount of food or anything.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Monica said.  “My friend and I get pretty into cooking, but we don’t start two weeks out, you know.”  She grinned at him.

“Understandable,” he said.  “Hey.  Your friends who do Thanksgiving together.  Are all of you hippies?”

“Without exception,” she said.  “Is that…”

“Nah,” he said.  “I told you.  Not a big deal.  Just curious.”

The waitress brought the check over, then.  They split it.

 

It wasn’t a big deal to John, maybe.  But it seemed like it was a big deal to everyone else.

“Look, I’m not saying he’s a bad person,” Frohike said.  He’d made similar statements over the course of the evening, as they all sat around eating and talking in the living room.  “Not him specifically.  I’m just saying, Monica, maybe you shouldn’t have jumped the gun and invited him for Thanksgiving.”

“Well, we’re the ones who host,” Melissa pointed out.  “And who do all the work.  I say Monica can invite whoever she wants.”  Monica gave her a grateful look; she was glad of the support, even if it didn’t seem to stop Frohike.

“Yeah, you’re the hosts,” he said.  “But still, you have to think about the whole group.  First of all, we don’t even know this guy.”

“Well, I know him,” Monica countered.  “Two years ago, you brought someone you barely even knew yourself.  At the last minute.”

“Esther?” Frohike said.  “Yes.  But she was really cool.”

“She ate an entire bowl of stuffing,” Monica said.  “By herself.  How’s that for not thinking about the whole group?”

“Yeah, that was my mom’s recipe,” Melissa said.  “We put a lot of work into that.  We would have liked a spoonful, at least.”

“This isn’t about stuffing,” Frohike said.  “This is about this guy Monica invited.  Second of all, what makes you think he even wants to come?  He didn’t give you a real answer.”

“Because he’s not sure if he can make it yet,” Monica said.  “That’s called being respectful of other people’s plans.”

“That’s called hedging,” Frohike said.

“Yeah,” Langly said.  “Definitely hedging.”

“It’s not hedging,” Monica said.  “He said he’d let me know soon.  The next time I see him, probably.  So what’s your point?”

She knew what his point was, really.  It was what she’d been afraid of.  “He doesn’t seem like someone we’d usually have for Thanksgiving,” Frohike said.  “That’s all.”

“Because he was in Vietnam,” Monica said.  “And because he volunteered.”  She wanted to be sure she was reading this right.

To their credit, the guys didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about.  “Well, yeah,” Langly said.  “That’s what Frohike’s talking about.”  And next to him, Frohike nodded.

“Wow,” Monica said.  “What ever happened to being open?”  She could hear her own voice, loud, and she wondered if she was being too defensive, overdoing it because she didn’t want to admit that she’d been surprised too, when John told her. 

“There’s being open,” Langly said, “but there’s taking personal responsibility for what you’ve chosen to do, too.  He had to know—”

“Plenty of people didn’t, at first,” Monica said.  “You know that.  And you haven’t even met him.  People have their own reasons for choosing things, you know.”  She looked around at the group, hoping that somebody else would back her up.

“We don’t always know where people are coming from,” Byers said, some hesitation in this voice.  “He could have had his reasons.”

“That,” Starchild said, “sounds like something that someone who was overly attached to bourgeois institutions would say.  You do know that not everyone has to follow the crowd?”  This wasn’t really about Thanksgiving or about John, Monica knew—it was about Starchild getting in a dig at Byers, whom she’d dumped again last night.  She doubted that Starchild honestly cared that much about who came to dinner.  But at the moment, it didn’t exactly make her feel any better.

“You’re right,” she said.  “Not everyone has to follow the crowd.  So I’m having John here for Thanksgiving dinner, if he can come.  Because he’s my friend, and he’s a good person.  And you guys—you don’t have to love him.  But you can’t act like a bunch of jerks.”

No one seemed to know quite what to say to that.  Eventually, Langly grinned and said, “We always act like a bunch of jerks, it’s the secret of our charm,” and Melissa squeezed Monica’s arm and turned over the record they were playing, and they started talking about ordering food.  The conversation was over, but it didn’t feel finished.

 

She got together with John that Saturday, in the park as usual, and they had lunch again.  “Well,” she said, after they got up from their table, “I guess I should get back.”

“You have plans for the afternoon?” he asked.

She shook her head.  “I’ll just go home and hang around, probably.  How about you?”

“No, nothing,” he said.  “Do you want to see a movie, maybe?  Before you go home?”

“Sure,” she said, quicker than she might have, but he smiled at her and didn’t seem to notice.

They saw _The Way We Were_ —some of her friends had been talking about it, but she hadn’t caught it yet, and neither had he.  It moved her more than she’d expected, especially since there were parts to which she wasn’t entirely paying attention.  She was paying attention, instead, to John sitting next to her, watching him out of the corner of her eye.  Mostly he seemed to be looking at the screen, which was natural, but he caught her eye once and smiled.

She didn’t know what this was.  She didn’t know what it meant, them being here at the movies together, but it felt different from picking up trash in the park, even from having lunch.  Somehow, she didn’t want to ask him, but she wondered if he wanted her to.  He hadn’t offered to pay for her ticket—she wouldn’t have expected him to, anyway, but that seemed significant.

When they were leaving the movie theater, heading to the subway, he said, “Monica.  About Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah?” she said, like it hadn’t been a big deal.  “Are you going to be able to make it?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “I am.  I’m looking forward to it, too.  Should I bring anything?”  He grinned.  “I’m not much of a cook, but I thought I’d offer.  I could bring a bottle of wine, at least.  Or some cider.”

“That sounds good!” Monica said.  “I’m sure we’d drink it.  I’m really glad you can come,” she added.  They were at the top of the stairs, now, leading down into the subway stop, and she paused and hugged him quickly, before she could stop and overthink it.  “Oh!” she added.  “Let me write down my address for you.”  She didn’t have paper in her bag—she never did, when she needed it—but she found a matchbook eventually and wrote it down on the back of that.  “There,” she said, handing it to him.  “We’re going to eat around two, I think.  But people usually trickle in earlier.  Whenever you can make it.”

He nodded.  “Well, I’ll see you then,” he said.

“Yeah, see you then,” she said.  He waved as he was walking away, and she waved back.

 

“Hey, there you are,” Melissa said, when she got back to the apartment.  “I was just going to get started with dinner.  Do you want to help?”

“Sure,” Monica said, putting her bag down on a chair.  “Speaking of dinners.  John is coming for Thanksgiving.”

“That’s good,” Melissa said.  “Right?” she added, after a minute, when Monica didn’t respond.

“Well, I think it’s good,” Monica said.  “Because he’s someone I like.”  She knew she was leaving the wording vague, but she didn’t have any better wording on hand.  “I’m just still a little worried about everyone else.  I hope the guys won’t start anything.”

“If they do, we’ll kick them,” Melissa said firmly, setting a bowl down on the counter.  Monica didn’t see that that would solve much of anything, but it made her smile, even so.  “He’s your friend, and that makes him okay in my book.  It’s not like the rest of us are so perfect.  If he’s willing to put up with Byers and Starchild…”

“You think they’ll be back together by then?” Monica asked.

“Oh, they’re back together already,” Melissa said.  “As of this afternoon.  Starchild said not to expect her home tonight.  I suppose they could break up in the next week, though.”  She smiled.  “Seriously, though, Monica, I’ve got your back on this one.  So you don’t have to worry.”

“Thanks,” Monica said.  “That really does mean a lot.”  She got a pan out from the cabinet.  “I do see what the guys are thinking.  I just think they’re wrong.  If they knew him…”

“Yeah,” Melissa said.  “I’m not going to lie—I would have been on their side, a couple of years ago.  But the war’s over now, and it’s not like this one guy caused it, and you said it wasn’t what he expected.  And I’m sure that’s true.  And I’m at the point where—people can change, you know?  We all did stupid things, once.”  She shook her head.  “I guess I’d rather save my rage for the system.  And the people who really deserve it.” 

Monica wondered if Melissa was thinking about those people, with the aggressive way she was currently chopping vegetables.  “Were you at the committee today?” she asked, cautiously.  “With Sheila?”

“Yeah,” Melissa said, after a minute.  “But I’m not mad at her, you know?  I’m just…I’m still working through the whole thing, I guess.  It’ll be weird,” she added.  “Not having her at Thanksgiving.”

“I know,” Monica said.  “That’s natural.  But we’ll still have a good time,” she added.  “The guys are bound to do something entertaining.”

“Here’s hoping, I guess,” Melissa said, and they went on making dinner.

 

One of the main struggles of Thanksgiving, every year, was finding the space and the chairs.  Their living room was decent-sized, but that was before you tried to jam a table in, and they didn’t keep that many chairs around on a regular basis.  This year they’d put the guys in charge of bringing extra chairs and were curious to see the results.

They showed up in the late morning, when Monica, Melissa, and Starchild were cooking, with four of the required additional chairs and one overstuffed ottoman, which Monica could hear banging along the stairwell long before she actually saw it.  “What is that?” Melissa asked. 

“An ottoman,” Frohike said.  “You want to sit on it?”

“Not especially,” Melissa said.  “You brought it.  Why don’t you?”

“All right,” he said, parking it next to the table.  “Suits me fine.”

“We brought cookies, too,” Langly said.  “And this tomato salad.” 

“Thanks,” Monica said.  “You want to leave them on the table?  Is Karen coming?”

“Yeah, she said she’d get here a little later,” Langly said.  “And to tell you she’s still bringing the cranberry sauce.”

“All right!” Monica said.  “Well, things are still cooking.  But we can eat chips or something until then.”

There wasn’t room for everyone in the kitchen, by any stretch of the imagination, and they took turns moving in and out.  At one point, Monica walked back in to find Starchild seated on the counter, Byers in front of her with his arms around her waist and his lips pressed to hers.  “Would you please do that somewhere else?” she asked.  “We are cooking here, you know.”  She was still baffled by them, sometimes, even when she was no longer particularly surprised. 

“What are—oh Jesus,” Melissa said, poking her head into the kitchen.  She and Monica both started to laugh, and Starchild and Byers laughed too, after a minute.

“All right, all right,” Starchild said, hopping down.  “When’s your guy getting here, Monica?”

“Not sure,” Monica said.  “I told him to be here by two.” 

“Okay,” Starchild said, shrugging.  She led Byers into the living room, presumably so they could consider whatever it was that they were doing.

Karen showed up around twelve-thirty, with her cranberry sauce, told them that the food smelled great, and thanked them profusely for inviting her.  “These days, with my residency, I’m so busy I never go anywhere,” she said.  “And I rarely eat anything more complicated than a sandwich.  So thank you.  Really.”

“It’s no problem!” Monica said.  “Yeah, Dana was telling me how busy she’s been.  Same for all of you, I guess?”

“You can say that again,” Karen said.  She flopped down next to Langly on the couch.  “But today, I’m not doing anything but eating and sitting.  That’s what I’m thankful for.”

“To eating and sitting!” Frohike cried, waving a glass, and everyone more or less joined in the toast, laughing.

Monica found herself glancing at the clock a lot, over the next hour and a half; she wasn’t necessarily expecting John before two, but she knew it was a possibility, and she was eager to see him, whatever everyone else thought.  _It’s going to be fine_ , she told herself.  _You’re freaking yourself out for no reason_.  And Melissa squeezed her arm and smiled at her while she was mashing the potatoes, and that helped too. 

When two rolled around, though, and the food was ready and on the table, there was still no John.  “You said he was definitely coming,” Langly said.  “Right, Monica?”

“Right,” Monica said.  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.  We can probably start eating.”

They took their seats on the table.  “Who’re we waiting for?” Karen asked.

“A guy Monica knows,” Frohike said.

“My friend John,” Monica said, thinking that he deserved more than just _a guy_.

“Oh, okay,” Karen said.  “I don’t think I’ve met him.”

“Yeah, none of us the rest of us have,” said Langly.  “He’s a mystery man.”  He was smiling as he said it, but Monica still felt on edge.

“I’m surprised he’s not here yet,” said Starchild.  Monica wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean.  It wasn’t like Starchild was so big on timeliness, usually.  She knew she was overthinking things, now, but she couldn’t stop.  She made herself take a serving of stuffing and concentrate on eating.  The others talked around her, about work and politics and movies and books, but she couldn’t take it in.  This wasn’t how she wanted Thanksgiving to go.

“Look, I’m going to call John,” she said after about half an hour.  “I want to make sure nothing happened.”  She got up from the table and walked over to the telephone, which was all of three feet away.  There was never a ton of privacy, when you lived with two roommates, but she felt it acutely now.  She didn’t have his number, she realized, so she took the phonebook from the table, hoping he was in there.  He was.  She dialed.

“Hello?”  A woman’s voice on the other end.

“Hi,” Monica said.  “Is John there?”

“Can I tell him who’s calling?”  Her voice didn’t reveal anything, only leaving Monica with questions that she knew she couldn’t ask.

“Yes, it’s Monica,” she said.

“Hang on just a minute,” the woman said; Monica heard her putting the phone down and calling, “John?  It’s someone named Monica.”

He picked up the phone quickly.  “Monica?  Hi.  How did you get my number?”

“The phonebook,” Monica said.

“Oh.  Right.”

“Are you…are you still coming for Thanksgiving dinner?” she asked.  “We’ve started—”

“Right.  I’m sorry,” he said.  He’d cut her off, something he’d never done before.  “Yeah, something came up just yesterday.  I meant to call you and then I forgot.  I’m really sorry.”

“It’s…I understand,” Monica said.  “But I’ll see you soon?”

“Thanks for understanding,” he said, which wasn’t an answer to the question.  “I really have to go.  Happy Thanksgiving, Monica.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” she said.  “Bye, then.”

“Goodbye,” he said, and he hung up quickly, before she could think about saying anything else.

She went back to the table.  “Something came up,” she said.  “He can’t make it.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Melissa said.  She gave Monica a sympathetic look.

“Yeah,” Langly said, and the others nodded.  But she knew that, aside from Melissa, nobody really meant it.  That made it all worse, and it was pretty bad already.  She couldn’t concentrate on dinner, not even on the pies, which were usually her favorite part.  She tried to take part in the conversation—she had plenty of friends here, she told herself, John wasn’t her only friend—but she couldn’t laugh like she usually did, not even at Langly’s selection of bad jokes about turkeys, which he brought out every year.  She joined in the clean up afterwards, because she didn’t want to be the person who didn’t do her part, but all she really wanted was to lie down on her bed, write in her journal, and try to figure out what had gone wrong.

Maybe she would call him again, she thought.  By this time, the guests were gone (Starchild with them) and she was putting the last dishes away.  She knew it was a bad idea, that she couldn’t hope to achieve much by it, that anything she heard would probably be something she didn’t want to hear.  But he was her friend, like she’d said.  She wanted to know what was going on.

She probably would have done it, too, but Melissa was on the phone when she went into the living room.  “Yeah, we had a pretty good time,” she was saying.  “How about you?... Well, I’m not surprised…When are you getting back, Dana?  We should get together…Yeah, that makes sense.  Call me…No, no, it’s okay.  I’ll talk to you soon, then…Thanks for calling, guys, really…Bye, then.”  She hung up and then turned to look at Monica, who was standing awkwardly in the doorway.  “Dana and Charlie,” she said, in explanation.  “They’re at our parents’.”  Monica nodded.  “Come and sit,” Melissa added, gesturing to the spot next to her on the couch, and when Monica did she leaned her head against her shoulder. 

They were both quiet for a few minutes.  “Thanksgiving stinks,” Melissa said, at last.

“It sure does,” Monica said, leaning her head against Melissa’s, and they were quiet again.

 

Monica waited for John to call, which was something she hated doing.  Sometimes she told herself he would probably call soon, sometimes she told herself he probably wouldn’t call again, and she didn’t know which she thought was more likely.

He did call.

It was about a week after Thanksgiving, and he didn’t say much on the phone, but then he never did.  He asked if she wanted to go to the park again that Saturday.  She had questions and she didn’t know how to ask them.  She said sure.

He was there on Saturday, at their usual time, in their usual spot, looking like he usually did.  Their greetings were the same too.  But when they started walking, looking for trash to pick up, he didn’t pay attention like he usually did, and then he turned to her suddenly, putting a hand on her arm.

“Hey,” he said, “I want to talk to you about something.  Can we sit down?”

“Sure,” Monica said.  They found a bench and sat.  She felt like she wasn’t in control of this, anymore.

“You’re probably mad,” he said.  “Since I didn’t show up last week.”

“I’m not mad,” Monica said, and that was true, anyway.

“But you probably want to know why I didn’t show up,” John said.  “Right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Monica said.  “I mean, if you want to tell me.”

“Sure I do,” he said.  “It’s just that it was a little unexpected.  You see, my…my wife and I—”

“Your what?”  _A little unexpected_ for him, maybe.  For her that didn’t begin to cover it.  She’d speculated, after what she’d heard on the phone, but she hadn’t thought this.  Marriage seemed so solid, so unchangeable, and never more beyond her experience than in this moment.

“My wife,” he said.  “I know I haven’t talked about her.  Before.  It’s because the two of us were—”

“That seems like a big thing not to talk about,” Monica said.  “A pretty big thing.  I would have told you if I were—”

“I didn’t talk about her because we weren’t really together,” John said, cutting her off again, like he’d done on the phone.  “And that wasn’t something I wanted to talk about.  Not because I don’t trust you, or anything, but because I didn’t want to talk about it with anyone.  We’d been having issues since I got back.” 

She didn’t know what to say to that.  A part of her was angry, now, maybe unjustifiably.  “Oh,” she finally said.

“We got married really young,” he said.  “After high school.  I don’t know…it is what it is.  Things were different after I got back.  Obviously, maybe.  But that was hard on both of us…and we haven’t been living together for a couple of months now.”  She watched him, trying to make out the story beneath the vague words.  “So I didn’t think we’d be together for Thanksgiving, and I said I’d come to your place.  But Barbara, she called and said she thought we should try again.”  Barbara, that was his wife’s name.  “That she wanted to have Thanksgiving together.  So we did.  And that’s…that’s it, I guess.”

“You could have told me,” Monica said.  A stupid thing to say.  This wasn’t about her.  She wasn’t important here.

“Maybe I should’ve,” he said.  “I wasn’t sure how.”

They sat on the bench for a minute.  “So how was it?” she asked.  “Your Thanksgiving?  Did you…the two of you…”  She wanted it to have been good, she realized.  She didn’t want this to have happened for nothing.

“I don’t really know,” he said, and she wanted to cry.  She couldn’t even be mad, like she wanted to be.  She couldn’t tell him…what?  That he shouldn’t have been so nice to her? 

“Well, I hope you both figure it out,” she said finally. 

“Thanks,” he said.  “I hope so too.”  They were quiet.  “You’re right, I should have told you,” he said, after a minute or two.  “I’m not sure why I didn’t.”

“I wish you had,” Monica said, because that was true.  Maybe this wasn’t anyone’s fault, one way or the other.  But it would have been a lot easier if he had.

She wasn’t really looking at him, but he turned now, to look into her face.  “Believe me, I never meant to make you believe something that wasn’t true.”

“I know,” Monica said.  “I know you didn’t.”  She didn’t think that of him; she didn’t want to think it.

“I hope we can still…”  He trailed off, gestured at the park around them with one hand.

“Yeah, me too,” Monica said.  “But maybe today…do you mind if I go home?”

“No,” he said.  “No, not at all.  I get it.  Really.” 

He walked with her to the subway.  “You can call me,” he said.  “If you want to get together again.” 

“I will,” Monica said.  “Honestly.  You’re my friend, and…I will.  Just not right away, maybe.”

He nodded.  “You’re my friend too,” he said.  “And a damn good one.  And I’m…I’m sorry about all this.”

“I’m sorry too,” Monica said, but she didn’t hug him this time.  She couldn’t let herself, she decided, so she just waved as she walked down into the subway station.

 

Melissa was home.  “Hey,” she said, looking up from the book she was reading as Monica came in.  “You’re back early.”

“He didn’t come for Thanksgiving because he’s married,” Monica blurted out.

“He’s married?” Melissa asked.  “What an ass!”

“No, it’s not like that,” Monica explained, sinking down onto the couch next to Melissa, letting her put her arms around her.  “He’s…they were separated.  But they were trying to work it out.  And anyway, there’s nothing wrong with it, being married.  I have other friends who are married.  Dana’s married.”  She knew she sounded ridiculous.

“But you feel differently about this guy than you feel about Dana,” Melissa said, “or your other married friends.  Right?”

“Right,” Monica said.  “But that’s not his fault.  He never…I was reading things into it that weren’t there.  I was being—”

“Monica,” Melissa said, and her voice was gentle and stern at the same time.  “We’re not in a court of law.  You don’t have to prove anything to me.  You can just be upset, if you want to.”  She looked at Monica’s face.  “Do you want to?”

“Yeah,” Monica said.  “I do.”  She didn’t know how to say what she felt.  “It’s just…he could have told me,” she said, and then she started to cry.

Melissa hugged her close.  “Of course he should have told you,” she said.  “I’m so sorry, Monica.  This kind of thing…it always feels awful.  Whatever the circumstances, whatever you tell yourself.  You can’t change how you feel.”

Monica didn’t have anything to say to that.  She just let Melissa keep hugging her, while she cried.

 

Monica spent most of the next few weeks hanging out with her friends, especially Melissa.  She didn’t really want to talk about what had happened—she couldn’t change it, so she wanted to move on—and they did other things instead, going to the movies or cooking together.  They had dinner with Dana once, on one of her rare free evenings, and they laughed together over Chinese food, and Monica felt more carefree than she had in a while.

It was just at the end of the year that she got in touch with John: she wanted to leave her bad feelings in 1973.  She didn’t quite feel up to calling yet, so she wrote him a letter.  She didn’t talk about what she’d felt, because it couldn’t come to anything, she knew, and it wasn’t a possibility she wanted to leave open anymore.  Instead, she told him that she’d enjoyed spending time with him, that she’d been shocked but that she wasn’t mad, that she hoped he and Barbara were doing well.  She didn’t ask him to call her or to write back.  She couldn’t be that firm about it, still.  She found his address in the phonebook, and she mailed the letter before she could second guess it.

She told Melissa that she’d sent it, when the two of them were hanging out on New Year’s Eve; they hadn’t felt like going to the party at the guys’ and were watching an old movie on TV at home.  “And do you feel better?” Melissa asked.  “Now that you’ve sent it?”

“Yeah,” Monica said.  “I do.”

“I’m glad,” Melissa said, smiling.  “You need more of the blanket?”  Monica nodded, shifting closer, and they kept watching the movie. 

They switched over just before midnight so they could watch the ball drop in Times Square.  “I wonder what they’re doing over at the guys’,” Monica said.

“Everyone’s probably looking for someone to kiss at midnight,” Melissa said, laughing.  “I wonder what Starchild and Byers will do for the occasion.” 

Monica laughed too.  “Too bad we’re missing it.”

Melissa tugged at the corner of the blanket.  “Just as well, I think,” she said.  “It can be a little sad.  Being alone at these things.”

“Hey, we’re not alone,” Monica said, and Melissa shrugged.  “Seriously, we’re not.”  She didn’t like Melissa saying that, didn’t like the thought that they were alone.  On the TV they were counting down, and Melissa wasn’t even looking at her.  “Here,” she said finally, wildly, when the countdown reached zero, and she leaned in and kissed Melissa.  She didn’t do it for long, but it wasn’t exactly a peck, either.

They both pulled back at the same time and looked at each other; Melissa looked stunned, confused, which was the same way Monica felt.  But then Melissa kissed her again, experimentally, and it felt nice, and Monica was about to lean into it when Melissa pulled away again.

“Sorry,” she said.  “Monica…we shouldn’t.”

“I…okay,” Monica said.  “I’m sorry.  I was out of line…I don’t know what I was thinking…it’s okay if you don’t…”

Melissa put a hand on her shoulder.  “Hey, it’s all right,” she said.  “It wasn’t that I didn’t like it.  Or that I don’t like you.  I just think…we’re probably not ready for this.  It’s a little sudden.  Don’t you think?”  Monica nodded, slowly.  She knew Melissa was right.  Sending the letter had made her feel better, but maybe not entirely, not yet.  “Okay, good,” Melissa said.  “Because I really don’t want to jump into something.  I’ve done that before and it was…”  She chewed on her lip, looking thoughtful.  “Lousy,” she finally said.  “Really lousy.  And it…it ruined some things.  And I wouldn’t want to ruin things with us.”  She was looking right at Monica now, and she was smiling.  “Because I do like you.  And I actually think this could work…if you wanted to revisit things, at some point…but just not now.  Not all of a sudden, like this.  Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Monica said.  “A lot of sense.  You’re not mad?”

“Of course not,” Melissa said.  “I’d tell you if I were.”

“Good,” Monica said.  “And I think I would like to…revisit things.  When we’re ready.”

“We’ll find our time,” Melissa said, and Monica believed her.  She snuggled closer to Monica under the blanket and picked up her glass.  “To a wonderful 1974,” she said, and Monica tapped her glass against hers, believing that would be true too.


End file.
